chavismo

Just a few months ago, amidst the avalanche of uncertainties surrounding the kidnapping of Nicolás Maduro by the US military in collusion with Venezuelan forces, we identified six indicators pointing to a clear political reality: the remaining chavista leadership was successfully adapting to the new board under conditions of vassalage to the invading power.

Since then, the core underlying conditions have not changed—the government continues to prevail over the conflict—but new windows of opportunity have opened for the opposition, and new situations have arisen that put this new, Rodríguez-led neochavismo in a tight spot.

Alex Saab has a substitute

The first sign of chavismo’s remarkable capacity for subservience was the sacrifice of some of its own key figures in exchange for US validation. Handing over Alex Saab was a well-calibrated move by the interim government. The primary financial operator of late chavismo had transformed into the manager of an opaque economy, eventually elevating himself into a political actor and a banner of anti-imperialism. Yet his fall came with a successor, a new financial lobbyist bearing the same signature of corruption, but who does not answer solely to chavismo: Alejandro Betancourt is a hinge operator, a pragmatic and elastic figure whose nature allows him to serve multiple partners with conflicting interests at the same time. Thus, the ideological flexibility of chavismo’s newest protagonists aligns perfectly with its broader mutation from a political project into a commercial consortium.

Rising social demands

In our previous analysis, we identified supervised economic liberalization as the government’s biggest gamble to buy time. Accelerating economic recovery was seen as a critical opportunity to relieve political and social pressure. However, the expected results have failed to materialize on schedule. No matter how many headlines trumpet investments in the oil, energy, and mining sectors, and regardless of the photos documenting memorandums of understanding with international capital, the revival of the economy remains a fantasy—just as it has been for the past twenty years. If Venezuelans are accustomed to anything, it is chavismo’s delusions. Today, the government faces a scenario in which the domestic economy and access to basic public services deteriorate at the exact same rate that rejection of foreign tutelage grows. Simply put: the strategy of accelerating economic recovery to defuse political pressure has been a complete failure.

In the electricity sector alone—one of the main triggers of protests and street pressure in recent weeks—there is a stark divide between grand announcements and actual binding agreements. Throughout 2026, investment announcements in Venezuela’s electrical grid were measured in megawatts, nearly all framed as recovery agreements with state-owned Corpoelec. In April, talks with Siemens and General Electric were announced to address the crisis in Zulia, but to date, no public contract exists with either company, and the situation remains critical: blackouts lasting between 5 and 12 hours (or more) persist.

On one hand, we see the return of exiled politicians who were persecuted for years. On the other, isolated attempts at arrests.

To date, no agreement has disclosed financial amounts or funding sources. Furthermore, megawatt figures vary depending on the source, and it remains unclear how INSA and Impsa are dividing the work at the Tocoma hydroelectric plant. All of this is unfolding against a backdrop of undeniable social demands that cannot be pacified by press headlines and investment promises. The timeline for economic relief is slipping away, while the timeline for public demand is accelerating.

The repressive apparatus doesn’t wane, it just loosens its grip

Ten months later, we can affirm that the relaxation of the repressive system and the amnesty law were purely symbolic gestures directed at Trump, carrying no real dismantling of the persecution apparatus. That tactic of erecting façade after façade regarding human rights has been maintained. Repression cooled down and political prisoners were released—some only partially—during these months under foreign tutelage. However, based on several statements from Washington detached from reality, the interim government confirmed that human rights are simply not on the US agenda. In that sense, there have even been small trial balloons replicating the repression of past months, testing American indifference. The Trump administration is not dismantling the repressive apparatus in Venezuela because its own government is also repressive—one that, in many cases, shares victims with chavismo: Venezuelans on US soil.

Nevertheless, a novel phenomenon is taking place that sends contradictory signals. On one hand, we see the return of exiled politicians who were persecuted for years. On the other, isolated attempts at arrests. This tension within the security apparatus has yet to show a clear trend and will ultimately be defined by the political force deployed by the actors involved.

Ambiguity toward China

In the initial months of US tutelage, the most dramatic shift in the interim government’s foreign policy—and the clearest sign of its ability to mutate to survive—was severing its alliance with Cuba. That move brought an alarming deterioration to the island’s economic situation, which had depended on Venezuelan oil for more than two decades. Remaining Chavismo did not hesitate to drop its oldest ideological partner when the cost of sustaining it became Washington’s disapproval. In that sense, it was primarily an existential rupture: one that demonstrated their capacity to sacrifice even their own founding narrative to guarantee the continuity of power.

In Venezuela, China is not competing in the short term. Instead, it is waiting for its window of opportunity to open.

With the discursive framing of the divorce from Cuba settled, this new period in international affairs—beyond the relationship with the US—is marked by the positioning and balancing act required regarding China, particularly concerning its oil assets amidst U.S. penetration into the sector. Unlike Cuba, China is not an ally that can be abruptly discarded without consequences. It is the country’s primary creditor following years of loans repaid with crude oil, and it holds stakes in joint ventures across the Orinoco Petroleum Belt.

For now, the interim government operates in the realm of pure pragmatism: avoiding any signal of alignment with China that might irritate the US, while simultaneously leaving existing Chinese investments untouched. That balance can hold only as long as Washington refrains from directly targeting Chinese assets in the country. Should that happen, Rodriguez-led Neochavismo would find itself trapped between its tutor and its creditor, with no room left to manage ambiguity. China, for its part, is in no rush. Its strategy in the region has long been defined by patience and long-term calculation: it is not competing in the short term; instead, it is waiting for its window of opportunity to open. And under a government that has proven its loyalties are entirely negotiable, that window will open sooner or later.

The alliance with Trump consolidates

The other major successful mutation for chavismo coming into view this year has been the dissolution of its anti-imperialist rhetoric. For over two decades, confrontation with the United States served as the narrative anchor of the movement’s project, the story that justified shortages, explained sanctions and failures, unified the militant base, and gave chavismo a distinct place on the international map. Today, that story is entirely untenable for a government cooperating directly with those who kidnapped its president and bombed its country: chavismo can no longer posture as a fortress against empire.

This shift carries heavy political costs. Internally, it opens deep fractures: segments of the rank-and-file and mid-level cadres trained on that narrative watch as their leadership cuts deals with the very enemy they were taught to fight for years, eroding the loyalty that the narrative once guaranteed. Externally, it means losing international alliances that relied precisely on that shared identity. Chavismo can no longer offer its former partners the epic tale of resistance.

The opposition’s challenge lies in constructing a vision of its own—one capable of appealing to an exhausted society that has watched both the revolutionary narrative and promises of a swift transition collapse.

Yet the dissolution of anti-imperialism also poses a serious dilemma for the opposition. For years, the opposition built its moral standing in direct opposition to a regime that simultaneously claimed the anti-imperialist mantle, violated human rights, and destroyed the economy. Now, with chavismo falling in line with Washington, that contrast becomes blurred. The opposition can no longer define itself solely by its antagonism to chavismo, nor can it present alignment with the U.S. as its own unique banner, because the interim government occupies that exact same space.

This forces the opposition to transform, which brings its historical weakness to the surface: its limited capacity for transformation. The Venezuelan opposition has proven effective at resisting, denouncing, and mobilizing during high-tension moments, but it has struggled immensely to renew its discourse, leadership, and strategies when the political terrain shifts. On this new board, its challenge is no longer to prove that chavismo is illegitimate, but to construct a vision of its own. A vision capable of appealing to an exhausted society that has watched both the revolutionary narrative and the promises of a swift transition collapse. If it fails to do so, it risks remaining trapped in a political language aimed at a chavismo that no longer exists.

On the same day Delcy Rodríguez was in New York meeting Donald Trump and representing Venezuela at the United Nations, María Corina Machado was trying, unsuccessfully, to get closer to her own country.

It was her third attempt in barely 24 hours. First came a planned maritime departure from Panama, which was canceled after the company operating the vessel reported mechanical problems. Then came an attempted flight to Aruba, from where Machado intended to continue by sea. Finally, there was another flight plan, this time for Curaçao. That trip did not happen either. Her team now says she has attempted to return to Venezuela seven times since she left in December 2025 to get her Nobel Prize in Oslo.

The exact responsibility for the latest failures remains unclear. But what happened during previous attempts is better documented. Axios reported in July that the Trump administration’s position was that third countries should not help Machado enter Venezuela. When Deputy Secretary of State Chris Landau appeared to tell the Dutch government otherwise, officials in Washington corrected the message. Curaçao withdrew permission for Machado’s plane to land while she was already in the air. According to the same account, Secretary of State Marco Rubio subsequently reiterated the policy to Machado personally.

This sits awkwardly beside Washington’s public position. Rubio said this month that Machado, as a Venezuelan citizen, has every right to return “whenever she wants.” A State Department official told Congress in July that the US would not obstruct her return. Trump himself has denied telling her to stay away.

After World War II, keeping Emperor Hirohito in power did not mean preserving his capacity to decide who could participate in Japanese politics.

All of those statements may be technically true. The US does not issue Venezuelan visas and cannot legally forbid a Venezuelan citizen from entering Venezuela. But Machado cannot teleport into Caracas. Getting home requires aircraft, airports, territorial waters, neighboring governments and, increasingly, governments that want to know Washington’s position before helping her. There is a meaningful difference between saying that the US will not prohibit her return and telling American partners that facilitating it is not US policy.

This would already be an odd arrangement for any opposition leader. It is stranger still in Machado’s case. She is hardly a geopolitical threat to Washington. She has gone out of her way to present a democratic Venezuela as a close strategic partner of the US. In December, she said explicitly that America would be Venezuela’s “main ally.” She has spoken about opening the country to Western investment, rebuilding the energy sector with foreign capital and transforming Venezuela from a security liability into a partner for the US. After Maduro’s removal, she publicly thanked Trump and Rubio and described the outcome as a potential “win-win” for both countries.

Yet Reuters reported last week that US officials remain wary of her return because they fear her presence could disrupt the transition Washington is supporting around Rodríguez. Machado’s movement is not part of the current US-backed negotiating mechanism, while Delcy’s government has become Washington’s main Venezuelan interlocutor.

That raises a question that goes beyond Machado.

The postwar parallel

The Trump administration has repeatedly defended its approach as a matter of sequencing. Venezuela needs stability first, then economic recovery and reconciliation, and “ultimately democratic transition.” The White House argues that rebuilding the economy is a precondition for elections rather than a substitute for them.

There is a serious argument behind that position. Venezuela inherited a devastated public administration, a crippled oil industry, enormous external debt and institutions hollowed out by years of authoritarian rule. Abruptly dismantling the bureaucracy, military hierarchy or State-owned companies could reproduce some of the worst mistakes made in other post-authoritarian or post-conflict transitions. A functioning State matters.

But preserving the State is not the historical equivalent of preserving the regime.

After World War II, the United States repeatedly confronted versions of this distinction. In Japan, the occupation retained Emperor Hirohito partly because American planners believed institutional continuity could make the transition less destabilizing. But keeping the emperor did not mean preserving the emperor’s capacity to decide who could participate in Japanese politics. On October 4, 1945, General Douglas MacArthur ordered the Japanese government to remove restrictions on political and civil liberties and release political prisoners. Among those released were prominent Japanese Communists who had been imprisoned by the old order. American officials later acknowledged that the resulting political opening was so broad that some Japanese mistakenly concluded that the occupation itself favored the Communist Party.

When it comes to the geopolitical role of the US, the Trump administration depicts itself as the decisive actor reshaping Venezuela. When questions turn to the lack of institutional reforms, Venezuela’s sovereignty becomes a much more convenient explanation for the limits of American responsibility.

Something similar happened in Italy. The Allies initially worked through King Vittorio Emanuele III and Marshal Pietro Badoglio because they needed an Italian government capable of administering the country during the war. At the same time, political exiles were allowed to come home and anti-Fascist parties returned to public life. The contrast is particularly striking in the case of Palmiro Togliatti, the leader of the Italian Communist Party and a former senior official of the Communist International. When Togliatti sought to return from Moscow in 1944, the US State Department explicitly said it had “no objection.” He returned and soon participated in the new political order.

Neither Japan nor Italy offer a blueprint for Venezuela. The historical circumstances were radically different, and American occupation policy was hardly politically neutral. But the underlying distinction is useful. Administrative continuity did not require preserving the old regime’s monopoly over politics. The State could survive while the political system opened around it.

That is precisely where Washington’s current Venezuelan policy becomes harder to understand.

The art of deflecting

Keeping experienced civil servants at their desks is State continuity. Avoiding a wholesale purge of the armed forces may be State continuity. Keeping PDVSA pumping oil while new rules are negotiated is State continuity. None of those choices inherently require preventing opposition politicians from returning, organizing, or campaigning.

And Venezuela’s political opening remains incomplete. A UN Fact-Finding mission reported this month that, despite prisoner releases and some liberalization, the structures responsible for years of repression remain largely intact. Officials linked to previous abuses remain in important positions, restrictive laws survive and arbitrary detention and mistreatment have not disappeared.

This makes the widening gap between economic opening and political opening particularly important. Washington is moving rapidly on the former. Rodríguez traveled to New York accompanied by officials discussing oil, mining, debt restructuring and access to international financial institutions. American companies are negotiating their return to Venezuela’s energy sector. Trump has made the oil agreement one of the centerpieces of his foreign-policy narrative.

At the United Nations this week, Trump went further. After celebrating Maduro’s capture, the release of prisoners and Washington’s relationship with Venezuela’s current leaders, he described the new oil arrangement in unmistakably triumphalist terms. “It was a war,” he said, before invoking the old expression: “to the victor belong the spoils.” He then presented Venezuela as proof that the US would once again impose its power against threats in the Western Hemisphere.

If Machado returns, travels freely, organizes her movement, holds rallies and begins preparing for an eventual presidential campaign, Delcy’s continued presence can still be understood as part of an administrative transition.

The rhetoric creates an uncomfortable asymmetry. When discussing oil, geopolitical alignment or American power, the administration depicts itself as the decisive actor reshaping Venezuela. When questions turn to the remaining coercive apparatus, restrictions on political competition or the continued exclusion of important opposition actors, Venezuela’s sovereignty becomes a much more convenient explanation for the limits of American responsibility.

Washington cannot have unlimited responsibility for everything that happens inside Venezuela. Delcy Rodríguez still controls a government, a bureaucracy and a security apparatus of its own. But the US plainly possesses enormous leverage over the political and economic environment in which that government operates. The history of Machado’s attempts to return suggests that this influence may extend even to whether neighboring governments are prepared to help a Venezuelan opposition leader reach her country.

That is why Machado’s return matters beyond Machado herself.

If she returns, travels freely, organizes her movement, holds rallies and begins preparing for an eventual presidential campaign, Delcy’s continued presence can still be understood as part of an administrative transition: an imperfect bridge between the regime that existed under Maduro and a genuinely competitive political order.

If her return continues to be regarded as destabilizing, however, the logic starts to invert. Political competition itself becomes a threat to stability. The government is no longer merely being preserved so that the State can function while politics reopens; political reopening is being limited because it might endanger the government being preserved.

Venezuela does not need another collapse of the State. But avoiding State collapse and protecting the political equilibrium inherited from chavismo are two different objectives.

The distinction between them may ultimately define this transition.